


Rearview

by susurrant



Series: Roads [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dean Has Powers, M/M, Slow Burn, Unrelated Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrant/pseuds/susurrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Buy me a drink," Dean whispers as he leans in. It’s not exactly his most subtle pick-up, but he hasn’t slept and hasn’t eaten and he’s really just hoping for something quick and not particularly neat. Dean doesn't hear what the guy says, but he sure as hell feels the sharp jab of an elbow to his chest.</p><p>Pre-series AU where Dean isn’t a Winchester. Dean is a mouthy runaway who tries to pull one over on the wrong drunk. Set Stanford-Era, except Dean is about 18/19 here. (Dean!POV of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4579185">Many Roads</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearview

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [jonswinterfell](http://jonswinterfell.tumblr.com) and [IHaveTooManyShips](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ihavetoomanyships) for beta reading this! 
> 
> Also thank you to everyone that's been reading and commenting as I reposted the old parts, I've been super nervous about continuing this series but your support has been awesome! I really hope you guys enjoy the newer stuff, now that we're finally here.

 

* * *

 

 _April 2003_  
  
Dean is - well, it's not like he hasn't been drunk before, because he _has_ , it's just that this is stronger than what he's used to. A little bit stronger. It's not like he drinks fucking wine coolers, but maybe the whiskey'd hit him a little harder than he'd thought it would. It’s not like he’d had his choice of refreshments. He’d grabbed whatever was left on the table when no one was looking.

And maybe he is a little drunk. _Trashed_ might be a better word, but Dean doesn't like the way it rolls off his tongue. It's not all bright and hopeful like _maybe_ , not dark and rumbling like _whiskey_ ; his mouth doesn't curl around it the same way. He smacks his lips.  
  
He's not entirely sure he can taste anything at all. He thinks that may be a good thing.  
  
His lips are numb, which is good, and all the bodies around him are blurred and warm and soft - which is also good because he knows they're not, not really, and if he were still sober enough to see that then he'd be too goddamn sober. Even the tight knot in his stomach has finally loosened up.  
  
He avoids the tables with more than one person; more than one means friends, and friends mean bravado and rejection at best, an ugly situation out back at worst. He’s taking a risk, doing this inside instead of waiting out front, but he’s desperate and exhausted and he can’t risk not making some cash tonight - needs it too much. So he sticks to the bar, the driftwood souls slumped against the counter that already have a few drinks in them. Not too much, just enough to make some loose decisions, maybe.

And hey, there's that word again.  
  
"Buy me a drink," he whispers as he leans in. It’s not exactly his most subtle pick-up, but he hasn’t slept and hasn’t eaten and he’s really just hoping for something quick and not particularly neat. This guy's shirt is worn soft with too many laundry cycles, Dean almost likes the way it stretches over his shoulders.  
  
And okay yeah, it's not his smoothest sales pitch ever, but the guy doesn't even look up from his notes and that grates a little. Dean deserves at least a _look_. He's fucking hot. Dean doesn't hear what the guy says, but he sure as hell feels the sharp jab of an elbow to his chest.

Funny. He wouldn’t have thought that would hurt quite so much.  
  
He rubs his chest absently with one hand while the other slips deftly into a pocket that isn’t his own and moves on to the next mark without a second glance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The bathroom stall smells like stale smoke and gas station fumes and old sweat.

Dean ignores the smell, breathes through his mouth and pretends he's panting for something else. He goes straight for the belt, not really in the mood for fucking around. The crumpled bills he now has stashed in his back pocket don’t buy much in the way of frills. Still, he needs it if he's going to get some food in his stomach to soak up the alcohol and a place to crash tonight without all his shit getting stolen. Not that he has any shit left to steal, not after his bag got swiped last week.

He swears under his breath, pissed all over again, mostly at himself. His hand works on autopilot, a little spit and a little friction takes care of the rest. If this stupid fuck is willing to pay for something he could just do for himself, Dean's alright with that.

The cash in the wallet he'd swiped should be enough to cover a motel room for the night, someplace with a locked door where he can get some sleep. He’s dead on his feet, not nearly in good enough shape to sleep somewhere unprotected and trust himself to wake up at strange noises in the night. The second he closes his eyes he'll be dead to the world; bunking down in an empty lot somewhere isn't an option, at least not for tonight.

So: food. Then sleep. Then he'll think about what the hell he's doing next. But not until then.  
The guy moans and his hands clamp down on Dean's shoulders so hard he winces. Correction: get this asshole off first, _then_ food, then sleep. He can almost feel the starch-stiff motel quilt against his face, won't even stop to kick off his shoes; he'll faceplant on the bed and not move for at least nine hours. He almost groans at the thought of it.  
  
There's a loud _bang_ and something is wrong. Suddenly Dean finds himself on the floor and his mark is gone, some dude in a dark flannel shirt and scary hard eyes is yelling. Dean blinks a couple times and tries to remember why this guy looks familiar.

" _Where is it?_ " The guy yells.

"Where's _what_ , you psycho?" Shit. A-plus, Dean thinks to himself as soon as the words leave his mouth - antagonize the dude with the anger management issues.

"My wallet, you little snot!"  
  
Oh right - the wallet. Sharp elbows at the bar.

He stammers out a response and hands the wallet back. His hand won't stop shaking from the adrenaline. (Just adrenaline.) He watches the wallet disappear back into Flannel's pocket. There goes the motel room. Maybe he can hide out in the bathroom until the bar closes up and bunk down in one of the booths for the night. Just a few hours to take the edge off and then... _And then_?  
  
"Get up," Flannel says.  
  
Dean stands up and regrets it almost immediately. He already feels like shit warmed over - too much whiskey and not enough food, and yeah he knows he went about that in the wrong order but when he’d gotten to the bar he’d just needed the goddamn drink first, okay.

The guy grabs him by the collar and drags him outside, Dean stumbling along desperately to keep his feet under him. Jesus. If Flannel had wanted a go he could've just asked, instead of being such a dick and scaring off the paying customer.

But this guy sure as shit doesn’t look in the mood to do him any favors. They really got off on the wrong foot here, Dean thinks. He's is totally willing to give the guy break on the price, what with the wallet stealing and all. He tries to explain this out loud but from the look on Flannel's face Dean's not really getting his point across. Dude needs to lighten up, he thinks. No one should look that pissed about getting offered a good deal.

It’s dark outside, but he whistles through his teeth when he sees the guy’s car - sleek black and shining under the fluorescent signs of the bar. Might be worth it to butter the guy up a bit. “Nice ride.”

“Get in.”

“Woah there, buddy. We’ve got a few things to discuss here first - ”

The guy opens the passenger door and does his best to shove Dean inside by the scruff of his neck. Dean buckles his knees and starfishes out his arms to grab onto whatever he can reach.

“- like, for example, where exactly are we going?”

“There’s a diner up the road a bit,” the guy says.

“Uh huh, sure. And what are we doing at the diner once we get there?”

“ _Christ_.” The guy wipes a hand down his face, like Dean is the one being super difficult here, what with refusing to get in a car with an angry drunk stranger. “To eat. It’s been a long fucking day and they already closed up the kitchen here.”

“And I’m going with you because… ?”

“Because what are you going to do if I let you go?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but his eyes slide back towards the bar and that’s answer enough.

“You coming?” the guy says.

Dean leans his head against the cool metal roof of the car, runs his thumb over the butterfly knife he’s got tucked up one sleeve for just-in-case and nods slowly. The guy might be lying, but if he is, he’s doing a pretty convincing job of it.

“Yeah, why the fuck not.”  
  
He sits in the car with his hands folded in his lap, nails digging little half-moon marks into his palms. His head is spinning, and he doesn't want to think about what this guy will do if he upchucks all over the leather seats. Or what he'll do regardless. He seems marginally less pissed now, at least. Dean's stomach rolls.  
  
The car smells like oiled leather and campfire smoke. He really wants to close his eyes, but when he does he loses track of gravity; his body floating in open space upside down, with his head spinning around on a different axis from the rest of him.  
  
They wind up at a diner, and there's food. Actual, honest to god food that didn't come out of a microwave or a plastic wrapper. His throat buckles at the smell of it, and he has to choke down the first bite - but the second that first bite hits his stomach it reminds him he's fucking starving and he shovels food in without bothering to waste much time on chewing. He downs a burger and fries, best he's ever had as far as he can remember, before he knows it he's scraping up the last bits of ketchup and salt on the plate with the pickle wedge and licking it off.  
  
The guy - _John,_ is staring at him. His eyes are dark with smudges underneath like he hasn't been sleeping. Dean doesn't like that look. Like the wheels are turning and any minute now they're gonna spit out an answer Dean is pretty sure he isn't going to like.

Too late he remembers they've got some business to work out, his own head still fuzzy from the liquor and lack of sleep. He clears his throat.

"Not that I'm complaining, but if you're gonna be taking this out in trade later I wanna know what it is you're wanting."  
  
"No trade. Call this one a freebie."  
  
That doesn't make him feel any better. "This one? So how much does the next one cost me?” _If there is a next one._  
  
"Where do you live?"  
  
"None of your fucking business, that's where."  
  
"Homeless, then." The guy's mouth thins to a flat line. Dean has seen that look before, usually before some asshole gives him bad news. "Sounds like a nice gig."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Watch your mouth."  
  
Dean's lips quirk up. Against his better judgement he thinks he might actually like this asshole.

  

* * *

 

The first night is bizarre; at least, the bits and pieces of it that Dean can remember clearly.  

They drive to a motel, which is - okay, not exactly out of the normal realm of possibility. It’s not like he does this all the time, but even so he’s more acquainted with transactions in back alleys and bathroom stalls.  The motel is pretty shitty though, empty beer cans rolling around in the parking lot and three letters missing on the neon sign out front.

What’s bizarre is that John - the john’s name is actually _John_ , which makes Dean snort a bit even though it’s not really funny - doesn’t want him in his bed. Or anywhere else, apparently, other than in the other bed sleeping quietly and not being a pain in the ass. 

"Dean," he says. "Get in your own damn bed."

John flicks off the light and slumps down in his bed and Dean spends several long minutes watching out of the corner of his eye as he climbs back into his own. He can’t see much in the dark, but he can make out enough to see John hasn’t moved. Dean’s just resolved to stay up for a while longer, to wait and see, before his eyes slip closed and he’s out within seconds.

He wakes the next morning to find John sitting on the opposite bed, already dressed, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. Watching him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Dean says. "Or are you waiting for a show?"

Dean lazily starts to stretch, mostly to cover the uneasy feeling in his gut.  He’s never liked waking up with an audience.

John, however, couldn’t care less about Dean’s morning-whatever. "Get up and get dressed. I've got shit to do."

Something in Dean snaps.  He’s pretty used to being just an inconvenience or a tool to other people. The difference here is, this particular situation was entirely John’s choice. John could’ve left him by the side of the road, or hell, back in the bathroom stall last night after he got his wallet back and they both could’ve gone on their merry separate ways.

Well, fuck that. This asshole doesn’t get to drag him around to wherever and then bitch about how much trouble it was.

"Seriously, dude. What's your deal? Not that I don't appreciate the food and a place to crash, but you do realize you're not actually my old man, right? You don't get to give orders and shit."

John is on him before he's even finished talking. A knee shoves hard into his stomach, John’s weight spread across Dean’s legs, holding him down and a hand comes up to wrench his head to one side.

"As long as you're staying with me you follow my rules, _that's_ my deal." John tugs down the collar of his shirt with two fingers. “Unless you wanna go back to wherever you got this?"

John nods down at a bruise low on Dean’s neck. Dean twists around, testing the waters, but the hold is damn tight and backed up by way more muscle than Dean’s got to offer.

"Alright, alright already! Dammit, let me go!"

"You gonna behave?"

"Yeah."

"" _Yeah'_ what?"

"Yes, Daddy," Dean tries, raising a speculative eyebrow. John gives his hair a sharp tug, just hard enough to know he’s not fucking around.

"Try again with less attitude."

"...Yessir," he mutters.

"Better. Now put your damn clothes on."

Dean pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, still clumsy with sleep. He’s pretty sure they’ve got until noon to checkout and looks longingly back at the bed. But John’s the one paying, and it’s looking like chances are slim that John’s gonna let him sleep off the rest of the morning.

He follows John outside, stands shifting on his feet while John locks up the room.

“So, that’s it then?” Dean says.

John flips the keys around in his hand, glances over at the car.  “I can drop you back in town.”

“Uh yeah, thanks.”

“Or,” John looks him over. “You can ride along. I’m driving up to Blue Earth, I’ll drop you off wherever you want along the way.”

“In return for - ?”

“Nothing. Just don’t try to lift my wallet again.”

“No thanks. I got some stuff to do around here, anyway.” He doesn’t, and John knows it too if the expression on his face is anything to go by. But John lets it slide, just nods and heads over to the front office to check out.

Ten minutes later they’re on the road, heading back into town. John keeps looking over at him and Dean pretends not to notice, drumming his fingers on the dash and scanning the streets trying to find a good spot to score some cash. It’s a small town, and there aren’t too many people out on the sidewalks this early. He might be better off bunking down in an alley for a few hours until the main streets are more active; the more crowded the sidewalks the easier it’ll be to lift a wallet or two.

He’s still got a couple bills from the handie that John interrupted last night, but that’s only gonna get him so far. He needs more cash, needs to hit up a thrift store or a dumpster for a new backpack, maybe a shelter if he can stand it - just long enough to get a shower. Damn, he should’ve thought about that while they were at the motel; could’ve just grabbed a shower there. Too late now.

Dean is too busy running through his options to notice John pulling into the drive-through.

John slaps him on the shoulder and points at the menu board. “Pick something.”

“Uh, donut and coffee.”

They’re the cheapest things on the menu, and if he doctors the coffee up with some sugar and cream it might keep him full a little longer. John gets some sort of egg and sausage sandwich thing that smells amazing and passes Dean a pink-frosted donut with a raised eyebrow.

Dean holds the paper bag with the donut in front of him and digs one fist into his stomach as subtly as he can manage, trying to quell the rumble in his stomach. The donut is gone way too fucking soon, and he curses himself a little for not asking for more, but he didn’t want to push his luck. There’s only so many free meals you can get out of a stranger before the good will runs out.

And yeah, John hasn’t asked for anything yet, but that makes Dean more nervous rather than less.

“Dean - ”

“Hmm?”

“You got somewhere to go? I don’t need to know where, I’m not asking that. Just - do you have somewhere?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s told that lie so many times he doesn’t even think before answering, but he can tell John’s too smart to buy it. “I mean, yeah - wherever. I’ll find somewhere.”

John stays silent for a long moment. They’re pulled over in the parking lot next to the drive-through, engine idling. In the end, John takes the decision to stay or go out of Dean’s hands.

“If I start driving right now, heading out of town, are you gonna pull a tuck and roll to get out of the car?”

“....No?”

“Okay then.”

John puts the car into gear and they pull out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They spend the day driving, only stopping for gas and food. In the afternoon they hit a rest stop, and John hands him a couple bucks for lunch. Dean tucks the money away for later and swipes some beef jerky and a bag of chips from the convenience store. He finds a discarded plastic bag in the parking lot and stuffs everything inside before he walks back to the car like a legitimate customer.

John doesn’t ask for change when he gets back and Dean chooses not to mention it.

Dean doesn’t care all that much where they’re going, as far as he can tell small town America is the same town after town, just change the street names around a bit. He’s always liked being on the road. Moving around so much growing up had sucked, yeah, but it was never the journey itself that he dreaded. It was the end of the trip that was always the worst - stuck in a new school, a new group home or foster family, new rules to learn and a whole new set of mistakes to make. The best part had always been leaving it all behind.

The steady rumble of the engine lulls him to sleep, staring out as miles and miles of two-lane blacktop pass on by until his eyes slip closed. He sleeps better than he has in a week.

  

* * *

 

Another night, and another crappy motel.

Apparently John is going to visit some long time friend of his, although he won’t say who or why which has Dean’s nerves on edge a bit. But John hasn’t done anything sketchy so far, and Dean is very well aware that he can slip out of the motel room at night and hitch-hike the fuck outta dodge if things start to get weird.

It hasn’t yet though. John takes gulps out of a hip flask when he thinks Dean isn’t watching, but he doesn’t ever get sloppy drunk again, not like he was that first night. Dean finds a lego and a half a broken crayon wedged in the bottom of the ashtray in the passenger side door - wonders where the kid is that left them behind - and decides not to ask questions. Everybody’s got their own problems; it’s not his business.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help poking at a whole different set of issues with a proverbial stick.

"So is it because you're a hetero with a capital H?" he asks.

"Is what because of _what?_ "

"Why you're not, y'know, taking advantage. You're pretty well closeted, man, but I've seen you looking."

"I prefer partners with a little more meat on their bones. And ones that have actually finished puberty."

It’s not an outright _no_ , is what Dean takes from that little dig. Still though. "Fuck you, I'm nineteen."

"Like I said."

Dean closes his eyes and traces his fingers over the sharp edges of the lego piece. The sun is coming through the windshield and making everything warm and comfortable and Dean swears something about this car is like one big sheet-metal security blanket.

 

* * *

 

  

John’s friend turns out to be an older man with a weathered face and calloused hands. He’s also like, a priest or something, which gives Dean a little bit of the heebie jeebies if he’s being honest.

Pastor Jim speaks gently but firmly, makes Dean think of soft moss growing over cold steel. When Dean looks at the pastor, he feels a strange tug in his ribcage, like a promise of safe haven from a storm.

Dean’s never really had much experience with clergy, maybe the voice and the weird tug is just a religious-dude thing. He doesn’t know if he trusts the Pastor, hell, he isn’t one-hundred-percent sold yet on John either, not really.

But it’s been three days and John keeps paying for his food, and bitching about what he eats and asking him if he’s on drugs like he’s actually concerned or something.  Dean’s not sure if this is what having a parent is like, he doesn’t have much of a reference point for that sort of thing, but he’s pretty sure actual parenting would involve a lot less cursing and fewer meals bought fresh from the gas station.

He likes it.

But more than that, more than anything else right now, Dean is just _tired_.

He’s been getting a good nine, ten hours shut-eye a night since he started riding with John. Sleeping in an actual bed, with sheets and pillows and nobody trying to steal your shit out from under you the second you close your eyes. Not to mention all the time he's spent conked out in the car.

Dean doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him but it’s like every time he wakes up, he just feels worse.

John thinks he’s on drugs, thinks he’s detoxing or something. He watches Dean constantly, sneaking in glances when he thinks Dean’s not paying attention. Dean feels it anyway, the telltale prickle on the back of his neck that’s saved his ass more than once. It rankles, even though he’s only known John a few days, even though it shouldn’t matter - he’s not a goddamn tweaker and it pisses him off that John can’t see that.

But he’s wrong. John and Pastor Jim have a different theory altogether.

"Dean, I know this must sound like a strange question, but have you noticed anything strange about your sleep patterns recently?” Jim’s got his expression schooled into something politely detached, thoughtful; but his tone is serious. “Sleeping a lot but not feeling rested, that sort of thing?"

Dean shifts in his seat. "Yeah, maybe."

“And how long has that been going on?”

“Dunno. Why?”

"We may have a theory about what's happening."

Dean just waits. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, maybe that he’s got some sort of super rare genetic disease that means he can’t sleep right. Or, his throat constricts painfully, maybe John’s been dosing him with god-knows what for fuck-knows what reason and things are about to get ugly. Yeah, he’d been feeling sorta beat down before he ran into John, but it’d definitely gotten worse the last few days.

Turns out they’re going for option C - the religious whack-job explanation about evil spirits riding his soul.

“It’s called a Walrider, or an Alp,” Jim says.

“An _Alf?_ ”

“Dean.” John gives him a flat look, like he’s disappointed Dean’s not taking this seriously.

“It’s a particular kind of spirit manifestation that feeds on the ah, life energy of its victims,” Jim says.

“And you know this because?”

Jim offers him what is probably supposed to be a reassuring grin. “It’s something of a hobby for me, I guess you could say.”

“Right. And what exactly did you mean by ‘life energy’?”

Jim clears his throat and looks over at John.

“It feeds you dreams - more like nightmares to start. Gets the adrenaline going first and then the dreams change into something else. You been waking up feeling tired?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?”

John tips his head a bit, _don’t make me ask you out loud._

Dean’s teeth clench together and he can feel his face burning, because he’s not twelve, he’s nineteen and who the hell comes all over the bed in their sleep at nineteen? He'd scrubbed it off on the sheets as well as he could, but apparently not well enough to escape John's notice.

“You’re saying this - _thing_ \- is making stuff happen when I sleep?”

And it takes a second for that to sink in, because John _knew_ , the fucker. He must’ve seen it happen, or heard it and holy shit how is it possible that this more embarrassing than that first night when John literally kicked his half-naked ass out of bed? And okay, he can deal with that. He's dealt with plenty of worse shit before, but all the talk about fucking spirits and ghosts is a step too far in freaky territory. Time to bail. 

He slips past John and Jim and locks himself in the rectory bathroom and has one leg out the little half-window before John comes busting in and tugging him back inside, telling him to _calm down dammit_ , like this is all some big inconvenience.

Like talking about fucking spirits and ghosts and wee tiny leprechauns is a totally normal thing, and hey bad luck you’ve got this thing following you, or hunting you, or whatever the hell.  And why are you being a pain in the ass about this, can’t you just sit down and listen like a reasonable person about the _magical fucking fairy_ who comes in the night to steal your life essence?

John holds him still until he stops struggling, and then keeps holding him until Dean’s able to force his breathing to even out back to normal.

“Dean, have you ever seen something you couldn’t explain?” Jim says.

John’s got Dean pinned up against the medicine cabinet by the scruff of his neck. He can’t exactly avoid the conversation the way he’d like to.

He thinks about eyes that change color and knowing it’s not a trick of the light, about men who aren’t men at all, and strange dreams that he likes to pretend he doesn’t remember.

And Jim asks again, “You’ve seen something, haven’t you?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

Jim smiles. “I thought so.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a big rusty horseshoe propped up on the headboard, circles of salt and and a bunch of other shit around the bed, and a freaky symbol spray painted onto the ceiling above him.  Dean is only half convinced he isn’t about to be sacrificed to the dark lord Morgoth or something.

He picks up a mirror that’s lying on the bed. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You hold that on your chest, reflection facing down. If the iron in the horseshoe doesn't drive it away, the mirror should prevent it from getting inside of you."

"How?"

"Mirrors have magical significance, it's said they have the ability to reflect our true souls,” Jim explains, leaning against the doorway just outside the room. “It used to be custom to cover all the mirrors in a house when a loved one passed away, so their soul wouldn't become trapped in the reflection. Some people still follow that custom today.

"The Walrider shows you lies, plants false images in your mind so that it can feed. With the mirror I think even asleep you will have the true reflection of yourself nearby. To remind you what's real. If we’re lucky, we might be able to use the mirror to trap the spirit so it can’t hurt anyone else."

Right.

Jim assures them both he’ll be right outside and leaves the door cracked open. Dean stands by the edge of the bed, unsure. “I dunno if I’m going to be able to sleep.”

“You will.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to. Not if some spirit or whatever is coming in to possess me _._ ”

John sits down heavily on the cot he’s got set up on the floor. “I’ll be right over here.”

 _You were here last night too, and the night before that_ , Dean thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud, there’s no way to do it without sounding ungrateful, or worse, like some scared little kid.

Dean does his level best to meet John’s eyes and look steady. “You actually saw this thing?”

John just nods.

“ _And?_ I’m sorry, I may be new to all this crap, but is it freaking normal for spirits to just wander in and out of your motel room at night? What did it do, what did it look like?”

“What do you want me to say, Dean? It was a spirit - it looked like a big cloud of smoke. It fed on you and it left. You gonna sleep any better tonight knowing that?”

“Yeah, maybe. Knowing is better than not-knowing, anyway.” Dean waves down at John’s duffel. “Hey, can I?”

John pauses for a second, then nods. Dean pulls out the pair of sweats and shirt he’d borrowed from the night before, turns his back to John and changes as quickly as he can manage with clumsy hands and his face burning. He doesn’t like this. It’s been what, three days? And he’s already gotten so wrapped up in this random stranger’s life he’s wearing the guy’s freaking clothes to bed.

 _Dependant_ has always been one of Dean’s least favorite words.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean snaps awake, his skin practically vibrating and his heart pounding. There’s a _thing_ hovering over him, a swirling mass of something like smoke or sand. When John had said it looked like a cloud of smoke earlier, he’d somehow managed to completely leave out how fucking creepy and malicious the thing looked up close.

He calls out for John, prays for him to be there, down on the floor less than five feet away but Dean can’t tear his eyes away from the thing long enough to check.

"It's okay, Dean. Don't move, it's working."

The words themselves don’t really process, but John’s voice is enough. He’s not yelling, he’s not even talking loudly; just low and confident and dead calm and it’s enough for right now. This is real.

This can’t be real.

The thing hovers over him for another second and then rushes out the crack in the door and Dean barely catches a glimpse of John as he chases after it. There’s a low murmur of voices outside, and then John is back in the doorway, a sawed-off shotgun held loosely at his side. Not for the first time that night, Dean thinks - what the hell has he gotten himself into?

"It probably won't be back tonight. And if it tries, that'll keep it away. I'll be here."

  
"Yeah okay. I'll just sleep peacefully while the magical horseshoe keeps me safe from the evil demon-cloud that wants to eat my soul. _Fuck_.” Dean scrubs his hands over his face. “Not that I don't appreciate everything, but you know, my life was normal before I met you. I mean it sucked, but it sucked in a normal way."

  
"Dean - "

  
"Stop cussing, shut up, and go to sleep? Yeah, I got it."

  
Dean rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes. He’s not going to be able to go back to sleep, not after that. Not with John standing in the doorway with a fucking shotgun loaded with salt to blow away evil spirits. Not curled around this mirror, the edges of it digging into -

He’s asleep before he finishes the thought.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Dean wakes up late, feeling more clear-headed than he has in days. John is still passed out on the cot, Dean thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen him actually sleep. It’s comforting, in a way; the man is human after all. Dean changes as quietly as he can and tiptoes out of the room.

Jim is already at the table, a book in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. He smiles when he sees Dean.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Better than I’ve felt in like a week.”

Dean stretches out his shoulders and arms, sore from sleeping curled around the mirror, as he looks around the kitchen. There’s cereal on the table, and cups and bowls and spoons all laid out. He hesitates.

“Sit down, help yourself. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter,” Jim says.

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while, Dean eats and Jim pages through his book and sips his coffee. Eventually Dean can’t help it.

“So, you and John - ”

Jim looks up from his reading. “Yes?”

“You hunt spirits.”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“There’s other things?”

“Oh yes. All kinds of creatures.” Jim holds up the book he’s reading to show Dean the cover. " _Clavicula Salomonis Regis_. Otherwise known as The Lesser Key of Solomon, it’s a book on demonology.”

So in addition to the ghosts and spirits, demons are real too, apparently. Of course they are, he thinks, not a little bit hysterically. Some of what he’s thinking must show on his face, because Jim puts the book down slowly and folds his hands on the table, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. 

“Demons are relatively rare, thankfully. If you’re lucky, you won’t meet very many of them.”

“Yeah, or any. But I’m not that lucky, am I?”

“No, I don’t think you will be,” Jim gives him a slightly crooked grin.  “The most common thing you'll encounter will be spirits - the vengeful ghosts of those who died violently.

“If you’re interested, there’s a book on the top shelf, all the way on the right. Black spine, red cover. _Spiritual and Demonic Magic, Ficino to Campanella_. It’s as good a starting place as any.”

Dean flips through the book, feels Jim’s eyes on him, like he’s waiting for a reaction or a question. As much as he’d like to dive right into figuring things out - forewarned is forearmed right? - the book is written in freaking Ye Olde English or something and the going is tough. Jim doesn’t seem at all surprised when Dean shuts the book and looks up.

“So, this thing - ”

“The Walrider.”

“Yeah that. Is it done now, I’m home free? Or I have to carry all that protective shit around with me every time I want to take a nap?”

“Ah, I thought you might ask. The truth is, we can’t know. After being driven away last night, it may simply move on to the next victim and leave you alone. Or it might be attached to you and continue its attempts to feed. We’ll have to see what happens tonight.”

“That’s it? The two of you and your big secret library of books and amulets and shit and the best you can do is ‘wait and see’? And what the hell happens if it goes off to feed on someone else?”

“John and I might be able to track down the next victim before it’s too late, but Dean, we can’t always protect everyone. This job isn’t black and white, there aren’t a lot of easy answers. The hunters that think it is don’t tend to last very long.”

Jim takes a moment to fold his hands on the table. “Just don’t tell John I said that,” he says with a grin.

Dean goes back to paging idly through the book, stopping sometimes with questions for the Pastor. There’s a glint in Jim’s eyes that tells Dean he’s being led by the nose towards something, but he doesn’t know what.

It’s nearly an hour later when John finally wakes up.

"Man, and I thought us young'uns were supposed to be the lazy ones," Dean says and bites down a grin.

"Coffee?"

Dean pours him a mug and hands it over. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol is for saying, _hey thanks for kidnapping me from a bar and then saving my ass from a life sucking monster_. He thinks pouring the man some coffee might be a start though.

"Thanks," John says as he takes the mug and raises an eyebrow.

"You look beat to hell, didn't think you could manage without spilling all over the place. Looks like I'm the only one that got a half decent nights sleep around here."

"Yeah and whose fault is that," John grumbles.

Dean’s mouth snaps shut and he goes back to reading his book. It’s not like he’d asked for John’s help in the first place. Asshole.

Jim tries to pick up the conversation without much luck. "We were talking about ways to get rid of the Walrider. Dean brought up a few interesting theories."

"Yeah?"

"The iron in the horseshoe repels it, but that only keeps it from attacking Dean. If it can't get to him it'll just feed on someone else. We think we can trap it and starve it out."

"Trap it how?"

Dean clears his throat, "In me."

"No."

"It makes sense! We know how to keep it away if we need to, but all I have to do is stay awake long enough for the bastard to die."

"It's not safe. We'll find another way."

"It's safe enough. I’ve been feeling like warmed-over shit for the last week and I want to get the thing that did this to me, and if you're not gonna help then I'll do it on my own." Dean meets John’s eyes and sets his jaw. John may be the big time ghost-hunter here but fuck him if he thinks that means he gets to make any blanket decisions about what Dean can and can’t do.

"We'll use me as bait instead," John says, but Jim jumps in.

"I'm sorry, John, but I don't think that would work. The Walrider's attached itself to Dean. It ignored both of us last night; I hate to say it but we might just be too old for the job."

"I'll be fine. I mean, you'll both be there and have my back right? Plus, we don’t even know for sure if it’s coming back." Dean looks back and forth between John and Jim, waiting for an answer. Let them take whatever precautions they want, but Dean is damn well going to be the one to kill this thing.

John pours himself another cup of coffee and pulls over one of the books from Dean's pile. He flips through the book as he drinks, completely unaware that Dean is still sitting there waiting on an answer. Maybe he thinks the discussion is over. He made his position clear and that’s that? Dean chews his lip, tries to think of a way to call John out on his bullshit without pissing the man off too much.

He’s about to open his mouth to speak but John beats him to it.

"Fine. Lay it out for me."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It comes again that night.

John had swept up the salt, tucked away the iron horseshoe and scratched out the protective sigils around the bed. This time, they let it come.

Phantom sand swirls down Dean’s throat, choking him and making his stomach roll. If he opens his mouth he might throw up. Or the demon - or spirit, whatever the fuck it is - might escape, which would be worse, because if he doesn’t trap the sucker now then he has to go through this shit all over again. He digs his fingers into his palms, mirror clutched to his chest, trapping the spirit inside, and concentrates on breathing through his nose.

"Dean?" John says.

Dean’s only known the man a few days and he could probably write pages on all the ways John says his name. Dean tips his head, staring straight ahead and not daring to speak.

"You need anything?"

He shakes his head.

"You up for some TV?"

Dean couldn't really care less, mostly what he wants right now is to stay very still, not talk, and keep breathing slowly until it stops feeling like his insides are going to become outsides.

But then again staying in bed when he can't fall asleep sounds a whole lot like torture.

He shrugs.

The three of them - John and Dean and the Pastor - settle down in the living room, the TV on some action flick that looks vaguely familiar. Jim is reading, a thick dog-eared book that looks boring. John has a pile of books from Jim's library out and his journal propped open on the arm of the couch. He's pretending to read and take notes, but Dean can feel John's eyes on him every time he looks away.

Dean tries to focus on the TV, but he can't follow it. His stomach has calmed down a little, but now that the first rush of adrenaline has settled, he's having trouble staying focused. He can still feel phantom touches, something brushing against his skin, dry air curling in his throat when he tries to swallow.

It's small stuff, easy to ignore at first. Dean wraps his arms tighter across his chest and tucks his hands against his sides to stop himself from twitching at every touch. John's eyes flick up every time it happens, and Dean can almost see John weighing the consequences of ripping the mirror away from his chest and calling the whole thing off.

On TV, a man in a dark suit is running across a rooftop with some other guys chasing him, when the first hit lands. A blow to his side, maybe not hard enough to bruise but just the feel of it is enough of a shock. Dean clenches up and sneaks a look down at his side without turning his head. There's nothing there.

When he looks up he can't see the TV at first, like a blind spot right in the center of his vision. Dean blinks frantically a few times and everything comes back. He shakes his head, it’s barely been an hour - he can't be going nuts yet.

A couple hours later Jim hands him a cup of coffee, but it's decaf. Dean knows real coffee would be a bad idea this early in the game, but he can't help wanting it anyway. He drinks it down, focusing more on the warmth of it than anything else. For the first time since last night, he can actually focus his senses on something real - the hot mug, the bitter taste. It feels almost good.

"If you're going to stay awake long enough you need some fuel. C'mon," John says. He forces Dean to eat some dry toast and drink some water. The first few bites go down like lead, but after a few minutes he actually feels a little better. He hadn't realized how shaky he'd been until the food settles in his stomach.

John keeps pushing him, to get up and walk around, to eat, to talk. Dean gives him blank looks in return and does just enough to get John off his back. He already knows something he can't explain to John, not yet anyway - that a little jogging or some pizza isn't going to make a damn bit of difference in this fight. It's going to come down to sheer willpower, and Dean can be a pretty stubborn bastard when he puts his mind to it.

He's going to starve this fucker out even if it means staying awake until he can't remember his own name.

 

* * *

 

  
He’s standing in the bathroom and John is there with him, coaxing his arms over his head and pulling off his t-shirt. The ace bandage they’d used to strap the mirror to his chest earlier is lying in the sink, and John is holding the mirror up against Dean’s chest with one hand.

“Huh?”

“It’s okay, just getting you cleaned up a bit,” John says.

The water is warm, which surprises him but he can’t remember why. John’s arm is firm around his shoulders, hand squeezing at his arm every so often to keep him awake. It hurts, but in a good way. Those hands are strong. He doesn’t think they mean to hurt him.

John leans in and Dean lets his head fall against John’s shoulder, trying to focus on that rather than the phantom pains in his chest, his back, his arms. They aren’t real; they can’t be. He looks down at his stomach, tried to pick out new bruises through the water, but there aren't any. Just the mostly-faded ones from last week. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and tries to ignore how unsteady it sounds.

“It hurts,” he tries to explain.

He’s not just being a baby from the lack of sleep, John has to know that. Dean needs him to understand.

"Where, Dean?”

Dean can feel warm breath against his ear, sending sparks racing down his spine. He closes his eyes and tries to chase the feeling.

“Dean!"

Suddenly everything moving around, water sloshing violently in the tub. "Wha-?"

"Dean, where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere." Didn’t they talk about this already? He thought John knew. “It’s inside, it’s inside everywhere.”

  

* * *

 

  
John promises him it's almost over, minute by minute, just one minute more.

Dean presses stiff fingers against his eyes and shakes his head until his vision goes back to normal, dark wet pavement fades to innocuous beige carpet, there's a snap so clear and sharp he flinches at the sound and then he's doubled over again. John thinks he's trying to fight, trying to get away, but he's not. He swears he’s not.

He curls in on himself and tries to block out the rush of images, the strange feel of his own limbs pressed tight together, wrist throbbing.

It had been almost a week ago, maybe longer? He doesn’t remember. Outside a library, of all places. Dean had been tucked up in an alcove, an odd little bit of space between where the original building met a newer addition.  He’d figured he could slip inside when they opened the next morning to take a piss and get cleaned up before he moved on.

He’d woken up just in time to feel his bag being carefully slipped out of his hands. Outnumbered and still groggy with sleep, he’d managed to put up enough of a fight to get them to leave, whoever the fuck they were. Not enough of a fight to get his shit back though.

His money hadn’t been in the bag, but most everything else had. He hadn’t been able to risk pickpocketing, not with his knuckles bruised and his hands clumsy.  And nothing got a store owner more suspicious than a kid coming in wearing beat up clothes and a beat up face to match. He’d risked one trip into a little corner store to buy aspirin and some food to tide him over, and that had been it. He’d paid and left quickly, counting over and over in his head how much he had left (not much) and what he’d be able to get with it (not enough).

The next few days had passed like a sort of fever dream.  He felt like he spent hours at a time stopped dead in one place, but then he would blink and find himself somewhere else completely.

Now he sits on the couch, John’s hands wrapped around his wrists to stop him from doing something - he can’t remember what - and his mind flips back and forth between one reality and another, like changing the channels on the TV.  

_Click_

One of them takes him down in a tackle right at stomach level, his head hits the concrete and -

_Click_

Dean looks up at the teacher with wide eyes, and she says, “You need to learn to pick your battles, Dean-o, or you’re not going to make it very far,” and she’s looking down at him with bright yellow eyes -

_Click_

"He that layeth up treasure for himself is not rich toward God. Luke, twelve twenty-one," Pastor Jim is saying.

"Uh huh sure. Ante up or fold, old man." Dean's got cards in his hands, good cards, maybe.

What are they playing?

_Click_

There’s a tiny kid standing by a stream and scuffing his shoe in the dirt. “I’m not s’pposed to talk to strangers,” he says and Dean shudders as an icy hand brushes down his arm.

_Click_

He reaches up to scratch, the thing on his neck is so itchy. If he could just take it off for a second and stretch a bit he could - but someone’s got his hands, they’re not moving like he wants. The hands are warm and large but he tugs at them anyway, he wants them _off -_

_Click_

Dean’s skin blisters and the air burns his lungs as he sucks in a breath to scream.  He can’t - he can’t do it. Everything around him is coming down in flames, thick rancid smoke filling him up from the inside out. Every piece of himself he’d spent his life building up, the walls and attitude and a mouth too quick for his own good, all of it burning away in a white-hot wash of fire.

Something inside his head is screaming at him; the sound pushing everything else aside. It’s not him, it’s not _his_. He feels the flames lick at his outstretched fingertips, curling up his legs and gives in. The thing, the other thing that’s in here with him - it’s dying, finally. But so is he.

Something stirs in his blood at the thought, like electricity in his veins. Waking up.

 _Not yet kiddo_ , the words ring through his head, cut through the screaming and clear as a bell. He clenches his fists, pulls his hands back from the fire.

They’re both dying, but he’ll be damned if he’s going out first. Not without a fight.

  

* * *

 

_Four days later._

Dean washes his hands quickly. The water is ice cold and the faucet is ringed in rust, but the water runs clear enough. He splashes his face and scrubs it off with the hem of his shirt, shuts the tap and dries his hands on jeans, making sure to tug down his sleeves to cover his wrists.  
  
The bruises are still dark purple, even days later. Dean's still a little fuzzy on some stuff; he's been sleeping a lot the past few days, big surprise. They aren't sore, not like the scratches on his neck - those were still healing and made the collar of his shirt uncomfortable where it rubs against the broken skin. He runs his fingertips over the scabs, stomach clenching at the flash of sense memory. He can remember clawing at the bandage looped around his neck holding the mirror to his chest, the desperation and panic rising up to overwhelm him, though not _why_ he’d been so afraid.

John hasn't said much about those last few days at Pastor Jim's, and Dean hasn't asked. The Walrider was dead; case closed.  
  
Dean tugs his sleeves down over the bruises again. He hasn't asked about those either, because every time his sleeves were pulled up far enough, John got this look in his eyes like he needed a stiff drink. Dean didn’t have to look too hard to know the dark smudges match John's grip down to the last finger.  
  
"Two minutes and we're on the road," John calls through the door. His voice sounds rough with sleep, even though Dean hasn't seen the man sleep since they got back on the road. He knows it must happen, the sheets on the second bed are always pulled down like they've been slept in, but by the time he wakes up John is already dressed and impatient to get moving.  
  
He's not sure where they're going, or why they need to be on the road at ass o’clock on a Tuesday morning. He doesn't ask about that either.  
  
"Got it," Dean calls back. He scrubs a hand through his hair and flicks off the light as he leaves.  
  
John is shoving the last few things in his duffel, Dean's own bag is already packed, sitting at the end of his bed.  
  
"You okay?" John asks. He's giving Dean this look, one that Dean's gotten a lot in the last couple days. Like maybe something nasty is still hitching a ride in his body. Or maybe like John's regretting the offer to let _Dean_ hitch a ride.  
  
"I'm awesome. Where to today, papabear?"  
  
He’d figured out pretty early on the quickest way to wipe that look off John's face is to replace it with irritation. John gives him a withering look.  
  
"Take this stuff out to the car, I'm going to check out."  
  
Dean tosses the bags in the back seat, staying out of sight of the front office. He's not sure if John does that to avoid paying extra or if it’s because Dean still looks enough like rough trade that John doesn't want people calling the cops on them for solicitation.

He stands outside the car, door open and arms folded on the roof, stretching out a crick in his neck. His collar scrapes along the healing skin and he remembers why he was trying to avoid doing that. John is back a minute later, squinting into the morning sun and scrubbing one hand over three-or-so days worth of stubble.

  
"Food?" Dean asks.  
  
"We'll get it on the way."  
  
Dean frowns but leaves it for now. There's a diner on the corner he'd been eyeing, when they'd rolled into town last night the smell had wrapped around the car like a blanket. Dean had poked mournfully at the last few bits of melted cheese and lettuce from the wrapper of his gas-station burrito. This morning is no better - the air is thick with the sweet smell of syrup and hot coffee, so strong he can almost taste it.

It comes down to a battle of wills between his stomach and his fear of John's typical pre-caffeinated bad mood.  
  
"I'm a growing boy, you know," Dean says.  
  
John slows the car and pulls off to the side. "We've got about 450 miles to cover today. We stop here," John tilts his head at diner, "and I don't want to hear any bitching for the rest of the day. We're not stopping. Clear?"  
  
Dean can't help the way his face lights up. John's still giving him that hardass look, the one that means Dean is about to get threatened with some very time consuming and boring menial task.

He wipes the smile off his face and nods. "Yessir."  
  
The food is just as good as it smells, hot and thick with grease the way Dean imagines homemade must be. There's pancakes and sausages, scrambled eggs with hot sauce and two cups of strong, bitter coffee. Something occurs to him.  
  
"When you said 'not stopping for the rest of the day,' you meant..."  
  
"Lunch in the car. We'll get it to go."  
  
Dean regrets all the coffee now. If they’re not stopping for lunch there’s no way they’re stopping for bathroom breaks. He's not a big fan of pissing on the side of the road, and he knows that's what John means when he says no stops. John has this idea that rest stop bathrooms take too much time, what with all those unnecessary distractions like running water and basic sanitation.

Dean, for his part, thinks there's definitely such a thing as being too close to nature. He's been camping exactly once in his life, on a school trip in seventh grade. He'd gotten caught sneaking off the campgrounds the first night and been sent back to the group home the next day.  
  
They get sandwiches wrapped up to go and leave cash on the table to cover the bill. The drive takes six hours. Six hours of blacktop, trees and road signs that all look the same. It doesn't get interesting until late afternoon, when the road starts winding up into the hills.

The land drops away on one side, all rolling fields and little farmhouses that look like they came straight out of a glossy magazine. One of the boring ones you find in doctor's office, like House Beautiful or Vermont Life. Dean isn't actually sure where they are, although he thinks they might've crossed the border into Virginia a little while ago.  
  
Eventually rolling fields give way to mountains. Dean’d grown up mostly in the flatlands of Oklahoma and Texas; the mountains almost don't look real to him, looming off in the distance, all blue and gray and muted greens. Like something off the back of a postcard.  
  
"Where are we going, exactly?" When they'd started off, he'd kind of thought they'd be hitting up haunted houses and graveyards, but so far all they'd done is drive, eat, and stop at a library. Two days ago John had left Dean at the motel room for a couple hours while he ran an errand. He'd come back with a package wrapped in brown paper that looked suspiciously book-shaped.  
  
So far hunting was pretty boring, in all honesty.  
  
"I've got a friend who has a cabin up here."  
  
"Is it haunted?"  
  
"No."  
  
"O-okay." Dean waits, watching John's hand twist on the steering wheel.  
  
"We're going up there to train."  
  
He perks up. "Train to do what?"  
  
"The basics. I don't want you shooting yourself in the foot when I ask you to clean the guns."  
  
Dean winces. "Does that happen a lot?"  
  
"It damn well better not."

Dean tucks his head against the passenger window to hide his grin. Two days ago John had found him in the kitchen at Pastor Jim’s, a book on spirit lore open on the table in front of him.

"I don't know what you're expecting here,” John had said. “It doesn't get any better than what you've seen. I live out of that car and I hunt whatever I can find. There isn't some nice house waiting somewhere. And you can't have a dog - no dogs in the car. Period."

It had taken Dean a moment to parse the words, to realize what John was offering.

"I don't really want a dog. And the whole white picket fence thing freaks me the fuck out. I don't belong here. I want to be on the road, with you, staying in skank-ass motels. Teach me to hunt and I won't let you down. Please."

John had breathed in deep, seemed to take a moment to consider it. Dean kept his expression carefully blank, he’d already begged - no reason to embarrass himself further by looking too eager, especially if John said no.

“Get your bag. We’re on the road in five, and if you’re not in the car by then, you’re not coming.”

“Yessir.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next up is _Push, push_ which turned into kind of a beast when I wasn't looking, so I may be splitting it into two parts if I can find a natural breaking point. It'll cover more of Dean's point of view up through _Wide is the Gate_ , filling in some of the stuff we didn't really get to see from John's limited perspective.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
